


Jonah Week Ficlets

by Yashitsu



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ghost Sex, M/M, Trans Jonah Magnus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24730243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yashitsu/pseuds/Yashitsu
Summary: A collection of ficlets for Jonah Magnus Week 2020. Content varies and will get quite dark, see chapter notes for details.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	Jonah Week Ficlets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please respect my boundaries by not reading this fic if you are under 18.
> 
> Contains: noncon, weird ghostly fog sex, angst

Jonah is awoken by a sudden chill shuddering through him, the cold penetrating to his very bones. Instantly, he sits up, awake and alert, certain something is direly wrong.

“Oh, dear, Jonah.” A voice echoes through the room, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Jonah stiffens further. He knows that voice, even as wispy and fog-choked as it now is. “You didn’t see me come in here, did you? In fact, can you even see me at all?” He’s right. Though the voice of the man Jonah abandoned to his self-dug early grave reverberates though the room, his figure is nowhere to be seen. In its stead, a heavy fog gathers on the floor of the room, seeming almost luminous as it swirls around Jonah’s bedposts. Jonah doesn’t dare step into it.

“Barnabas,” Jonah whispers to the empty air in front of him.

“You still remember my name,” Barnabas says from behind Jonah. “And here I had almost forgotten it myself.” He sounds so tired, nothing like the cocky, upbeat man Jonah had known. Well, Jonah thinks, this is just another part of Barnabas he’s getting to know. The latent darkness inside the soul of every single person on this earth. Fear can corrode them all, Jonah knows that. That’s why he stands firm, steadying his breathing, remaining as calm as possible, as tendrils of fog begin to creep up onto the bed.

“Is something wrong, dear friend? You’re usually so talkative. Were you hoping I would stay dead, right where you left me?” Jonah gasps quietly as the fog leaps towards him, winding around his ankles and wrenching his legs apart. He finds that despite not being able to feel anything solid around his ankles, he’s held fast. “Or were you not thinking about me enough to have any hopes at all?” Jonah takes a deep, slow breath before responding.

“You know what I had to choose. I’m sorry it had to—“ Jonah is cut off by an impact to his chest, knocking him on his back. He can’t sit up again when he tries, an eerie absence of weight holding him down.

“You’re not sorry,” Barnabas says, fury surging into his exhausted voice. “If you were sorry, you would act on it. You would help me.”

“Barnabas,” Jonah says quietly, “you know it’s too late for that.” The fog clouding the air wavers, as if shivering.

“It was always too late,” Barnabas murmurs, and then Jonah grunts in shock, shuddering as something cold and unfamiliar forces itself into him.

“Barnabas,” he warns as the thing pries him open, unhindered by his nightclothes.

“Jonah,” Barnabas replies, nearly moaning the word. It’s a bizarre sensation, like he’s being touched and yet not. Jonah feels phantom caresses, somewhere between the brush of fingertips and the faint movement of empty air, while something sinks deeper into him. The feeling between his legs is by far the strangest part of the whole thing, it’s clear that there is something inside him, but when he clenches down it’s like nothing is there at all. It’s frustrating, maddening, like the memory of being fucked more than the actual act. Jonah truly realizes, in that moment, that he will never touch Barnabas again. Still, he reaches forward, and of course, his fingers close around nothing.

“Oh,” Barnabas murmurs, “so you want me now. Well, my dear Jonah, we don’t always get what we want.”

And with that, everything stops. The fog fades away and Jonah is emptier than before, even the memory of touch slipping from him. He reaches down to touch himself, but decides against it. It’s too bitter, too lonely. Instead, he gets out of bed, lights a candle, and writes down what just happened, cold and academic, severing his feelings from his actual experience of them to commit them to the page. When he’s finished, he feels warm again, if no less empty. He returns to bed, trying to think of nothing but how this night, too, will fill the shelves of his Institute.


End file.
